


Coming Home

by ImpartialGorgon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Reunion, Sweet, post Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpartialGorgon/pseuds/ImpartialGorgon
Summary: Hawke picking up Varric on the way back home.Post Inquisition, Pre Trespasser.





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be the into to a longer story, then I tweaked it to use it for something else, but then it became an orphan scene. I figured I might as well post it.

She could have camped hours ago. She really should have. Her pack still had enough food, and night on a snow-covered mountain was unforgiving. She’d fashioned a torch for herself for light, heat, and to announce her approach from miles away. No, there’d be no sneaking into Skyhold this time around.

She should have camped hours ago. How could anyone live in the cold like this? Her pack had rubbed blisters onto her shoulder. Several must surely have burst by now.

Her time in The Anderfels had thinned her blood, and winters in Kirkwall were never as cold as they had been in Ferelden. The barest hope of a warm, soft bed pushed her these last few miles. She would make it tonight, so help her.

“A Fereldan’s a bore, when you kiss them they snore, and their dogs stay up late just to watch you...” She sang to herself. She was so close now. She could see individual people on the towers.

“Their beds stay too cold, they’re all born too old, and dinners are nothing but stew.” She sang a little louder at this point. They knew she was there. Tonight was almost over.

“An Orlesian’s a tease, if you kiss them they sneeze, they titter and gossip and such.” She waved her torch to her rhythm as a means of greeting. 

“Their masks hide their faces in all the wrong places, and powder and preen all too much.”

“Hello there! State your name and business!”

“Marian Hawke returning from Weisshaupt.”

The shuffling behind the large gate doors was a welcome sound.

“Drop your bag and raise your hands.”

She followed suit.

Two guards emerged, searched her person, her bag, and the path around the entrance. They removed her daggers and gestured to follow them.

“Sorry for the display Ser, but safety is safety. We’ll need a secondary confirmation.”

“Varric Tethras will be able to vouch for me.”

A runner was sent as she settled onto a cold stone bench. It was warmer in the barbican. Not fully comfortable, but a vast improvement to being fully exposed to the cold night.

Two guards eyed her as they spoke furtively but intensely. Not an unusual occurrence around her, but it could spell trouble.

“I’m sorry to bother you Ser, but did them statues really come to life?”

Not trouble, just a fan. Thank the Maker.

Twenty minutes into the conversation her eyelids drooped ominously. Her replies came slower with longer pauses between sentences until she heard a voice that would jolt her out of the deepest sleep anytime. The voice she had prolonged her journey home to hear.

“Fellas, this is exactly her. You did a great job.” He slipped a purse into the hand of a guard as he shook it. “Thanks for keeping an eye out for our Champion. I can take her from here.”

He gathered up her weapons and bag and led the way.

“Our Champion?”

“I’m thinking of a sequel. What do you think of, ‘The tale of the Champion 2: Out of the fade and into the fire?’”

He was without a coat, and his boots were clearly on the wrong feet, but by all other estimations he had been awake for hours.

There were lighted torches every dozen feet that revealed the results of an intense rebuilding process. Such a change from her first arrival at the fortress.

“There aren’t a lot of vacant rooms since the victory party, but I could check-“

“No, I’m with you.”

“I figured I’d give you the option.”

They wove a route that lead through the lushly appointed great hall to a dormitory overlooking the courtyard. This area always vaguely reminded her of Lowtown; too many people packed too closely together.

Coming to his room, he opened the door and bowed low to her.

“Welcome home, Serrah Hawke.”

His room was smaller than the hanged man, less homey, but he had brought his distinct touch: the desk next to the fireplace, leather duster hanging next to the door, and a dwarven heavy stone bookshelf. It was surprisingly comfortable, given the circumstances.

The door was sufficiently closed and secured when she turned to him.

“Are you ready to go home?”

“Just about. I figure I help check a few items off the to-do list, then we head back to Kirkwall.”

He went to work arranging her pack and stoking the fire. Hawke assessed several bottles lined up on the desk.

“The Herald is keeping busy I take it? Even after vanquishing the ancient evil?”

“She doesn’t like to be called that, but yeah.”

“I’m sure she’d prefer that to what they’re calling her out in Markham.”

“Which is?”

“The peril of Andraste.”

“You’re right, Herald’s better. Though I’ve gotta give them points for cleverness.”

She pulled deeply from a squat brown bottle with a faded label until the suction was too great, and broke with a thudding pop and squeaky chirp of air breaking past her lips.

“That’s my kiss goodnight,” She affectionately addressed the bottle. Then turned to Varric, planted a kiss directly on top of his head, mumbling, “And one for you.”

Hawke barely managed to remove her boots before collapsing onto the bed. Varric pulled the chair up and settled in, with his feet propped onto the bed itself. The familiarity of the setup was a nostalgic comfort. 

A weak groan escaped from the bed. 

“What’s that?”

”No...” She was vaguely louder this time. “Here,” Her hand flopped weakly beside her. It was meager, but understood.

Smiling to himself, he took the invitation and eased himself into the space next to her.

Side by side, leaning into eachother. Her breathing was already shallow and regular, and as he listened he felt himself relax. The thread that kept him taut these long years unwound loop by loop in the dark.

“Well damn, I’m home.”


End file.
